No Cannes do

Cannes

If the truth, space and good taste allowed it, the heading of this column would be ‘My Cannes night of lust with Halle Berry’. Before her agent reaches the offices of Sue, Grabbit & Run, the Oscar-winner and I did not, alas, hit it off in bed, and it was mostly her fault. But before I go on, a few words about Cannes and the 59th Film Festival.

During the festival, the population of Cannes, normally around 68,000, doubles. The Cannois, not a bad lot, are quite proud of their festival, because in the ridiculous, celebrity-worshipping world we live in, Cannes is the centre of the world for 11 days every year. Hookers, hustlers, flesh-peddlers, social climbers, celebrity wannabes, agents, producers,  PR body-snatchers — you name it,  it’s here. Actually, the only thing  missing is Sam Spiegel’s yacht in the old harbour of Cannes, festooned with beautiful girls and ugly socialites. Mind you, Sam’s boat was a beauty, a classic gentleman’s yacht which today could be mistaken for a tender to some vulgarian’s superyacht. Never have I seen such  ugliness at sea. Except for their owners, that is.

If size does matter, the bigger and more vulgar the boat, the shorter, balder and uglier the owner. With exceptions, however. Last Saturday night I took my guests to the Vanity Fair party at Eden Roc, in Cap d’Antibes. Graydon Carter, the big cheese at VF, has been inviting me for years to his Oscar party in Hollywood, the most sought-after blast in the land of the depraved, and I have never made it there. (I sent my kids once, and he treated them like studio heads.) His Cannes Film Festival party ditto. But this year all  systems were go, and I flew in from the Bagel late Friday night.